


miscellaneous tumblr ficlets

by some_stars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BDSM, Body Dysphoria, Breathplay, Comeplay, Dean in Panties, Domestic, Flossing, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Panty Kink, Praise Kink, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various short fics and fic-type things from Tumblr that are not quite long or fic-like enough to be posted separately. The rating ranges from G to E; content notes are at the beginning of each chapter.</p><p>(Chapters that aren't Dean/Cas will say so in the chapter title so you can find them without skimming a bunch of dudeslash first if you don't want to.)</p><p>(no longer "untitled etc." bc apparently i've started titling some of them. for no reason. idek.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which many fresh foam memories are made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "deancas + officially moving in together"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated G, no content notes except rampant fluff

Dean flopped back on the mattress with a whimper of joy, starfishing out to take up as much space as possible. “Ohhhhh,” he moaned, “oh, man, I told you the king size was worth it. Look at this. Not a single part of my body is not on this mattress right now. I am _floating._ I’m floating on a sea of memory foam.”

Cas gave him about five seconds of unfettered starfish bliss before pushing him over to make room. “It is very nice,” he allowed. “I still think it makes the room feel small, but it’s nice.” Then he immediately ruined his pretense of being The Mature One when he turned his head to look at Dean and smiled the same way he had the first time he’d tasted chocolate mousse as a human: like he couldn’t believe this level of delight existed in the world and was currently happening to his actual body, and Dean was the hero of all mankind for making it happen.

His eyes were a little brighter than the time with the mousse. Dean rolled closer to him. “You love it,” he said. “You love our bed.”

"I love our bed," Cas repeated, and reached out to pull Dean close. "I love our house. _Dean_ —”

The shiver of wonder in his voice made something knot up tight and hot and sweet in Dean’s chest. “I know,” he said. “I know, say it again.”

"Our bed. Our house. Our ludicrously oversize mattress. Our—" But then Dean was kissing him, and Cas’s arms were wrapping around him and their legs were twining together and maybe, maybe the king size had been slightly unnecessary.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe Cas had understood that all along.

By the time Cas pulled away, panting, and started to press kisses down Dean’s throat instead, he’d clearly forgotten whatever he’d been about to say, but Dean thought he knew anyway, thought maybe Cas was saying it right now. They both were; they were going to say it again and again for the rest of—

"Our life," he murmured, tangling his fingers in Cas’s hair and feeling a thrill of heat at the answering pleased hum. "Our life. Cas. We’re gonna live together."

"I’m glad you noticed," Cas said, attempting to hide his grin against Dean’s chest and failing utterly because Dean could feel it. “That would have been an awkward conversation to have tomorrow morning, otherwise.”

"I’ll show you awkward" wasn’t, actually, the least sexy thing Dean had ever said during sex, but the ensuing pause for helpless giggling was definitely the best time he’d ever had being laughed at in bed.


	2. in which porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yeah, this is just porn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated E. content notes: d/s dynamic, rough sex, breathplay, spanking, comeplay, crying, praise kink

As it turns out, Dean really really really likes it when Cas tells him what to do and makes him work for it, and then, when Dean’s wrung out and sweating and dazed because he finally, finally earned it, tells him how good he did, how happy he makes Cas like this, every time, all the time.

And Dean loves it when Cas fingers him almost perfunctorily, just enough to get him slick, then spreads him and presses the tip of his cock against Dean’s tight hole, pushing past the lingering resistance just a minute before Dean’s really ready for him and then all the way in, in one steady relentless slide that makes Dean arch his back and whimper and squirm against Cas’s bruisingly tight grip on his hips. But Cas doesn’t let him go, doesn’t let him move an inch as he starts to thrust, and Dean’s whimpers turn to moans turn to sharp little cries each time Cas slams home. He loves when his arms give out and he has to turn his face to the side just to keep from smothering himself in the mattress, when he feels his cheek sliding back and forth against the sheet, when Cas’s hands and Cas’s cock in his ass are the only things holding him up and all he can do is sob and take it. He loves how Cas holds him down, then, one hand between his shoulders, and fucks him too fast, too hard, telling him how he wants Dean to feel him tomorrow, the next day, the whole time Cas is gone, wants to fuck him hard enough he can’t help but think about Cas every time he moves, remember this every time he sits down, so he’ll be good and desperate when Cas gets home next week, needy and begging just the way Cas likes him best.

He loves it, too, when Cas gets a good tight grip on his hair and holds Dean down on his cock and makes him take everything, even when Dean chokes a little and his eyes tear up as he swallows frantically, trying to make it good, trying to finish Cas off so Cas will let him up and let him breathe again—except part of him sort of hopes Cas won’t. Because the harder his pulse thumps in his ears, the harder his dick throbs between his legs, dripping and untouched because Dean’s got his hands behind his back like a good boy, doesn’t even have to be told anymore. And he thinks he might pass out and he thinks he might come from this and he thinks he wants that, wants it just like that.

And he loves it a _lot_ when Cas spreads him over his lap so his cock slides just right between Cas’s thighs every time Cas spanks him, until Dean’s crying and coming and sore and Cas tells him, while he’s still shaking and pressing his face into the blankets, that he’s made a terrible mess and he had better clean it up like a good boy. And he is a good boy, isn’t he? Always such a good boy. And Dean crawls awkwardly back across Cas’s legs, a deep flush coloring his face and all the way down his throat and upper chest, almost as red as his ass and thighs, because this is the one thing he still can’t quite ask for, can’t quite accept that he loves and needs and craves, the one thing that still makes him blush and shift and look away. So he buries his face between Cas’s legs, carefully licking up every drop of his come until Cas’s thighs are spit-shiny and clean, and then Cas takes hold of his chin—gently, firmly—and tilts Dean’s face up and waits for Dean to meet his eyes. Tells him to come up here, takes Dean up in his arms, kisses his eyelids and his cheeks and his nose and every tear, kisses his mouth, tells him how lovely he is, how good, how beautiful, how perfect.


	3. in which all the best proposals are made while both parties are soaked in fresh tiger blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt "post series: dean/cas - proposal and marriage"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated G. content notes: fluff, more fluff, and animal death

Dean spends a long time thinking about proposing before he actually does it. Like, months. First he spends a while tossing the idea around in his head—proposing, getting married, just thinking about it, kind of a constant low hum in the back of his mind whenever he’s with Cas: _what if we were married? What would this be like then?_

Usually the answer is “pretty much the same,” like when he’s making Cas his weird gross scrambled eggs that he likes so soft they’re still a little runny, or when Cas is dragging him along to go running—running for _fun,_ which has never been an idea Dean could get behind before. Or when Cas falls asleep first, chest pressed to Dean’s back and one arm wrapped around him, his face squished into that weirdly sensitive spot just above Dean’s shoulder blades. Or when they’re hunting, fighting together, moving on instinct, too fast to think but somehow reading each other’s minds seamlessly anyway. Dean can’t figure how any of that would change much if they signed some papers and exchanged rings.

But somehow that doesn’t stop him thinking about it. And after a few more months, he realizes it’s not a background hum anymore, and it’s not _what if._ It’s _I want to marry him_ and it pops up every few days at least, never for any apparent reason in particular. Sometimes Cas isn’t even there at the time. Dean waits for this to start freaking him out, but it doesn’t, and then it doesn’t some more, and one day he finds himself thinking, _how am I going to ask him?_

This is a much more difficult question. He comes up with plenty of ideas--over a romantic dinner? After sex? During sex? Just casually drop it into conversation and make it sound more practical than anything else? Maybe bring up the general topic and test the waters first?--and he rejects all of them; everything is wrong. After just over six weeks of this, Dean’s almost psyched himself out of the whole thing, and when he isn’t thinking about giving up he’s thinking that maybe he should just slip a note into Cas’s pocket when he isn’t looking: _Will you marry me? Circle one Y/N_

He knows Cas knows something is up. Dean’s twitchy, he’s getting emotional at weird shit like doing their laundry--especially the folding--and when Cas finally asks him if anything’s wrong, Dean’s pretty sure his deflection doesn’t fool Cas for a second. The situation is getting dire. Something must be done.

A couple days later he gets a call about some Mysterious Animal Attacks the next town over, and they head out and hunt down what turns out to be a real live full-size saber-toothed tiger that some idiot college kid magicked up from a fossil after watching _Jurassic Park_ too many times. It’s a more straightforward fight than usual, which is kind of refreshing--no special blessed weapons, no hidden vulnerable spot they have to search a bunch of books to figure out, just point and shoot. Then the damn thing knocks Dean flat and sends his gun flying, and it turns into “roll away, scramble, point and stab,” which is not refreshing in any way whatsoever.

Cas took a gigantic paw to the chest a minute ago and went down. Dean didn’t see him start bleeding but he didn’t see him get back up either, and he needs to not be thinking about that right now; he needs to be thinking about scooting down for a better stabbing angle before those gigantic saber-toothed jaws descend. But he is thinking about it. He can’t stop.

Which is right when Cas staggers to his feet, runs toward him, takes an actual honest-to-god _flying leap,_ and jams his knife hilt-deep into the tiger’s chest, right between the ribs.

He lands on top of Dean, knocking all the breath out of him, and one knee comes perilously close to knocking some way more important things as Cas crawls over him and yanks the blade free, but considering the alternative, Dean’s pretty okay with it. He doesn’t even have time to get back up before Cas slashes the thing’s throat, cutting fast and deep and spraying them both with blood.

Its roar cuts off abruptly. A couple seconds after that its eyes go dark and it crashes to the ground. Cas drops the knife and falls to his hands and knees next to the giant carcass, panting hard.

“Are you all right?” he asks Dean.

Dean says, “Let’s get married.”

This is not what he meant to say. He meant to say, _yeah, I’m fine, are you okay?_ or possibly _holy crap, that was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen you do, and I’ve seen you literally smite people._ Something along those lines. He lies there staring up at Cas, smelling blood--and tasting it, because some got in his mouth, great--and feeling his heart beat very, very fast.

“Okay,” Cas says, and reaches out a hand to help him up.

So they do.


	4. in which dean does not get gingivitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i read the following tweet from [mara](http://grandpadean.tumblr.com/): 
> 
> _frankly if cas never puts his fingers in dean (doesn’t matter where) there’s no justice in the world and we might as well start over_
> 
> and naturally took it as a challenge to find the unsexiest possible way(s) for cas to put his fingers in dean. there was going to be a second part involving nostrils, but i decided not to push my luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated G. content notes: nothing but fluff, oral hygiene, and mild sex jokes.

When Dean managed to get his left elbow and his right hand broken on the same hunt, he wasted no time--once the last of the vampires had been taken care of--in making the extremely obvious masturbation joke. He had to deliver it in short bursts between grunts of pain as Castiel helped him up and then helped him to the car (because he had also, of course, twisted his ankle), but it was literally the first thing he said. Castiel would have almost felt proud of him, had he managed to say it when Sam wasn’t right next to them.

Sam’s “really, Dean?” sounded half-hearted anyway, probably because of the pained grunts. Castiel refrained from responding until later, when they were driving back from the hospital, after the pills had kicked in.

"Just so you know," he told Dean, who lifted up his head from Castiel’s shoulder to look at him sleepily, "I will not, in fact, be giving you a ‘helping hand’ while you recover from your injuries."

"Oh, come _on,_ ” Sam said, from the front seat. Castiel shot him an apologetic glance in the rearview mirror.

"What?" Dean frowned, slowly, his eyebrows furrowing together centimeter by centimeter. "That’s. That’s not fair. What’s the point of…you know." He waved his immobilized right hand broadly. "Havin’ a boyfriend, not gonna jerk you off when you break your hands?"

"I didn’t say we won’t have sex," Castiel said. "I just wanted to make it clear that I won’t be available on demand to help you maintain your usual masturbation habits, as you suggested I would."

Dean rolled his eyes. “Was a _joke,_ Cas,” he said, his drugged speech overemphasizing his words. “You know. A funny thing people say? You know about jokes.”

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "And I know that your jokes are often also statements of fact or intent. And I know _you._ So I thought it was best for us both to be clear up front.”

"You couldn’t have waited thirty more minutes?" Sam said. "Really?"

"He’s probably going to be unconscious by then," Castiel said.

"You _suck,_ ” Dean mumbled into his shoulder.

"Yes," Castiel said, and gently guided Dean’s head to rest more comfortably on his lap, being careful not to put any pressure on his elbow cast. "The usual number of times per week."

*

As it turned out, a more urgent biological need presented itself first.

"Oh, fuck _everything,_ ” Dean said, glaring down at his toothbrush the next morning. By the time Castiel had stumbled into the motel bathroom, yawning, Dean had managed to smear some toothpaste on it with his left hand while pinning it down by the handle with his right forearm, but it was clear that the rest of the process was going to be a problem.

With Castiel’s help, he managed to get the handle of the brush snugged securely enough into the cast on his right hand to brush his teeth, although he had to pause twice and rotate it to get the sides. And he could pinch the rim of the plastic cup between two fingertips and rinse his mouth without splashing too much water on himself.

Flossing, however, was clearly going to be an issue.

"I could just not floss," Dean suggested. "I mean, half the time I don’t floss anyway. Flossing is weird."

"Remember what I said last night about us continuing to have sex?" Castiel said.

"Uh. Kind of? I was pretty high," Dean said. "But okay, fine, so what, then? I mean, unless you plan to get in there and do it for me, I don’t think I can MacGyver my way out of this one."

Castiel tore off a length of floss and looked at it. If Dean could just use his left hand--but the rigid cast kept it at a ninety degree angle, leaving his one functional hand unable to reach his mouth.

There was really only one solution. Castiel sighed and didn’t bother trying not to grimace too obviously as he wound the floss around his fingers and leaned forward.

Dean leaned back sharply at his approach, nearly falling over. “Whoa, hey, that wasn’t an actual suggestion!”

"Open your mouth," Castiel said, "and hold still."

Dean narrowed his eyes. “See, now the next time you say that it’s just going to make me think about going to the deaaaauughhh!”

He glared at Castiel the entire time and let out indignant, wounded little yelps whenever Castiel snapped the floss down too hard, but he held still.

"I hate you," he said when Castiel was finished. "You’re a fucking sadist, you know that? I can taste blood. You made me _bleed._ ”

"That means you need to floss more," Castiel said, and filled up the plastic cup for him again—just an inch or so, so it wouldn’t be too heavy. "Rinse."

Only Dean, Castiel reflected, could find a way to swish water around his mouth resentfully. He had such an expressive face.

Dean spat the water out into the sink. “What are you smiling at?”

"Your face," Castiel said.

The ensuing chase and wrestling match had to be cut short when Castiel took a fiberglass elbow to the eyeball, but even with two arms out of commission, Dean did a remarkably good job of making it up to him.

They compromised on flossing every other day, since it was only going to be four weeks until the elbow cast came off. “You know,” Castiel said a few days later, as he became more intimately acquainted with Dean’s molars than he had ever managed during even the most open-mouthed of kisses, “you’re extremely lucky I love you so much.”

"Aah uhhohh," Dean said. "Ah uhh euh euooh."


	5. learning the ropes (Krissy & Claire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble and a half for the prompt "Krissy/Claire, learning the ropes." although it doesn't quite reach actual textual femslash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated T, i guess? content notes: blood/injury

Claire doesn’t remember being tied up, that first time—only burning through the ropes like they were paper.

That wasn’t her. She doesn’t have that option now.

Relaxing gets her enough give to grope around the concrete floor behind her. She hides her small movements with a loud sob, shoulders heaving. The glass shard’s no bigger than her thumbnail, and she cuts herself twice before the rope around her left wrist snaps.

Krissy doesn’t stop the clock until she rolls to her feet, both hands free. “Better.”

Claire grabs the stopwatch and checks: down thirty-eight seconds since her first attempt. Almost as fast as Krissy, now. "Good enough?"

"You tell me."

She nods and hands the stopwatch back, bloodied. “For now.”

"I felt you tense when I was tying you up," Krissy says. "Don’t be so obvious about it. Pretend you’re just struggling."

Claire sucks on her hurt finger, listens.


	6. in which panties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> written for a prompt asking for dean/cas panty kink, "maybe cas catching sight of dean's panties when dean hefts up his gun..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated E. content notes: panty kink, mild d/s dynamic

Castiel congratulates himself on his self-control all the way home, all the way down the hall to their room, over an hour all told by the time he finally shuts the door and shoves Dean down on the bed, knocking a startled laugh out of him and a dark flash of his eyes. 

"You have no idea," Castiel says, straddling Dean's knees and making quick, businesslike work of his belt and fly, "how long I've been waiting to do that."

"Uh, since this morning?" Dean still looks a little dazed, but he's squirming out of his shirt as best he can on his back, his breath starting to come quicker and shorter. "I mean, I'm flattered, but dude, even I can make it twelve hours without--"

He lifts up his hips as he talks, clearly just on automatic, but when Castiel yanks his jeans down to his knees and leans down to rub his face against the hot, sweat-damp pink satin, Dean's voice stutters and chokes to a stop. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees him push up on his elbows to watch, and he only half-hears the strangled "oh _fuck_ " Dean gasps out. He loves the sounds Dean makes, loves the trembling words only he can pull out of Dean, but--it's been over an hour. Over an _hour_ since Castiel caught a glimpse of pink lace, and he's been so very, very patient.

"I'm going to suck you off through these," Castiel informs him, not quite lifting his head enough to keep his lips from brushing lightly against Dean's stiffening cock as he speaks. "You're going to come in them for me, and then I'm going to lick you out through them. Or maybe the other way around," he adds, thoughtfully. "I haven't decided yet. Do you have any more like this?" He tugs at the elastic waistband and lets it snap back against Dean's skin just to enjoy the shocked little twitch that gets him.

"I--Cas," Dean says, helplessly, staring down at him with wide dark eyes. His hips jerk up a little and he bites his lip. "Fuck, I-- _Jesus_ \--"

Castiel licks a quick firm stripe up Dean's satin-covered cock, sucking a little at the tip, just until Dean cries out and jerks his hips up again, his whole body begging for more. "I asked you a question," Castiel says, and waits for Dean to remember.

"Yeah," he says finally, a lovely deep flush creeping up his cheeks, "yeah, I got a few more. Um--another pink one, and then a couple different colors."

"That's good," Castiel says. "I like you in panties."

"Kind of getting that, yeah."

"And," Castiel adds, sitting up to yank Dean's pants the rest of the way off before pushing his thighs back and wide, "it's good you have more. Because these..." He glances up at Dean and smiles. "You're going to _ruin_ these for me."


	7. in which we skip the fingerbang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i was writing a fic where dean fingerbangs cas, but then i abandoned it, but i really liked the end part right after the fingerbanging so i worked on that part some more and here it is. it's still not, like, actual fic quality, not least because of the shameless and sloppy POV-switching. also just kind of lazy writing and no beginning or ending. but that's okay because it's not a fic, it's porn. porn that is not about fingerbanging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated E. content notes: comeplay/come marking/wet-and-messy kink generally, midstream POV-switching which is _the most shameful kink of all_

After, Dean starts rubbing off against him, and Cas is limp and boneless, utterly sated, but he manages to lift his hips up to meet Dean's thrusts. He can't seem to figure out words yet, but when Dean gasps out a question-- "Can I, is it--we don't have to, is it okay," he makes some very affirmative sounds, and shivers all up and down as Dean pushes in. 

There's a little whimper, then, an instant of tightness and tense shoulders that's gone by the time Dean stops and pulls out, asks, "Hey, are you okay, are you sure...?"

"No," Cas slurs, "no, 's good, yeah..."

"You're gonna regret this when the sex haze wears off," Dean tells him, shaking his head, but that's what Cas wants. He wants to feel it, the pain flickering through his nerves like pleasure, like heat, like pressure, like everything else, he wants to _feel_ it. Wants to wake up sore and hot and messy, wants to breathe in sharply when he gets up and starts moving, wants to shift around for hours afterward whenever he sits down and know that Dean is watching him--wants everything, just like he does for Dean, he wants to feel all of that, wants it just the same, not one little bit less.

Dean sits back and spreads him open with his thumbs, holding him exposed to Dean's view. His hole is still a little open from taking Dean's fingers, stretching so wide, because he kept wanting _more_ \--begging for another finger, another, working himself back until he was riding Dean's knuckles, fucking himself breathless and sore until he came, and then a little more. Cas always wants more, even now--face down in the wet spot, all messed up, fucked-out and dazed and it's still not enough.

Dean can't resist stroking one finger over him, gently, right where he looks so red and wet and _used._ Cas whimpers and pushes back into his touch, and that's just--

He sinks into him again like water, their bodies melting together, pulling Cas's hips up to meet his thrusts while Cas writhes against the bed, rubs his face against the pillow, soft and pliant and open and taking everything, everything. Right as Dean starts to come--he doesn't know why, just feels a sudden overwhelming urge to get Cas dirty, mess him up--he pulls out just enough to watch, rutting the head of his cock against Cas's rim as he spills over him. He slips in and out a couple times, and each time Cas sobs as he's stretched open again, exhausted but still greedy for it, his hole clenching weakly around Dean's cock like he wants to hold Dean there forever.

Finally, when Dean's shaking almost too hard to hold himself up, he jerks his hips up one last time, his cock sliding between Cas's cheeks and nudging over his tailbone. The skin there is already dripping with sweat, hot and slick and welcoming, and Dean grinds down and rides out the end of it.

As soon as he can move again he pushes himself up and sits back, wanting to see. Cas squirms a little at the shifting weight, lets out a soft huff of breath, but otherwise he's still and quiet, finally worn out--and smiling, Dean can see it, even with most of his face squashed into the pillow. Smiling and looking practically _blissful_ with Dean's come dripping out of him, sticky streaks all over his thighs and his balls, that one last stripe across the bowed hollow of his back--wet and filthy everywhere, a satisfied happy mess.


	8. eventually everyone gets in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was doing [this meme](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/116617761728/ship-meme), and one of my (many) answers for "who tops?" kind of got away from me. The title, such as it is, is from [this poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182159), which is much better and more interesting and thoughtful than this nonsense here and also is not just an id-vortex confection, and _also_ is just really dang good, go read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated M, i guess, for sex that's technically explicit but not really. content notes: body dysphoria (not specifically related to gender/size/anything nonfictional humans have dysphoria about, but still) and ludicrously purple prose

Even after almost a year as a human, Castiel still has days where he just doesn’t fit right in his skin--where everything is too loud, too rough, too bright, or sometimes everything seems glazed and fogged over, or sometimes he just feels this deep terrible itch in his bones that sometimes goes away if he goes for a long, long run, but sometimes it doesn’t. It’s hard to eat on those days, hard to sleep, hard to sit and stand and move and breathe. Hard not to snap at Dean for nothing, slam doors, clench his fists and crawl into bed and sit with his arms wrapped around his knees feeling wrong, wrong, lost, aching and sad and hating himself for the sadness and pettiness and still it won’t stop.

Those are the days when he needs Dean to put his body back together, make it make some kind of sense, piece by piece--stroking up his legs, kissing behind each knee, the sole of each foot, reverent but not hesitant, gentle but not soft. Castiel lies back and watches him, mouth open, at first just puffing soft breaths but as Dean goes on, touches him more, sucks on his fingers and bites his throat and scratches over his chest just enough to leave the faintest marks--as Dean settles him back into his body Castiel gets louder and louder, and it’s only when he’s finally begging--squirming in Dean’s tight grip, eyes closed, back arching--that Dean kisses his mouth, lifts Cas’s legs up over his shoulders and holds his hand as he fucks him deep, steady, pulls him together and takes him apart all at once, makes him feel--just for a little while--like this body is _his,_ because Dean loves it, because it can feel like this.

Dean moves inside him, gasps his name--his name that Dean gave him, the name that belongs to this body--and Cas rocks up against him and sweats and burns and shudders and wants it, never wants to stop.


	9. and we drop everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay so clearly [this meme](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/tagged/meme%3A-otp-questions) has turned into a monster. this is for the prompt "who's more likely to carry the other?", but it's not actually a fic. it's just...sort of fic-like. and yes, this is the way i write when i let myself write what comes naturally. this shit. i should be more embarrassed but lbr, i fucking love it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated G. content notes: implicit reference to canonical (temporary) character death, complete disregard for grammar, id vortex set to maximum

Dean knows the weight of Castiel in his arms. It was a shock the first time, when he had to haul Cas to that hotel in the seventies, practically dead weight, and he'd known Cas was getting weaker but somehow even watching him cough up blood didn't drive that point home as hard as the sheer _weight_ of him, heavier than he looked. And then it happened again--staggering out to the car after driving a stake through the thing that wasn't Leah Gideon, the thing that had left Cas writhing in agony on the floor--and Cas was stumbling along a little this time, not completely out of it, but Dean still had to keep his arm tight around him, with Cas's arm around his shoulder, blood in his mouth again. Still heavy, still heavier than seemed right to Dean, but not more than he seemed to be, at a glance. Not like there was anything else in there, anything large and folded up tight. Just a tall guy, reasonably built, who'd just had the shit kicked out of him.

It was like he was shrinking, and he was, of course, that was what was happening--getting smaller, weaker, _less,_ and Dean knew it was his fault but even that guilt couldn't smother the tiny spark of fierce gladness. Despite how fucked everything was, how hopeless their prospects were, how hollow and cold he felt inside and colder still with each passing day, each time he carried Castiel it felt more and more like carrying a person. Like someone who was really there. Maybe didn't want to be there--maybe didn't even like Dean anymore, probably didn't, in whatever weird soft alien way he had before, because he _had,_ Dean knew he had, once. And he didn't anymore but he was heavy like a regular guy and he needed Dean to hold him up and he _was_ here, willing or not. Coming closer and closer.

So I wonder, sometimes, if later, so much later--as he hauled Castiel ungently back to the lab, walking too fast on purpose at first until the sound of Cas's awkward stumbling and pained grunts started to feel less satisfying and more sickening--as he helped Cas stand up to spew back all those souls, made that one last quick dash forward to catch him, automatic even now, because even after everything Dean wouldn't just let him _fall_ \--when Cas opened his eyes and his face healed up and Dean helped him stand up and didn't know what to feel, couldn't feel anything in that second, all out of feelings because it was just too fucking fast, Cas gone and there and dead and alive and lying and earnest and Dean couldn't keep up anymore--I wonder if what he did feel was that heavy weight, a different kind of heaviness now, less like a meat-and-bones body and more like a bag of lead weights, some strange cold quality to the press of that body against his. I wonder if he felt it and remembered how it was before. I wonder if that was what he remembered most, afterward, remembered first--before Cas's face, before the sound of his voice and the lightning-storm smell of him that stuck around even when every other trace of angel had faded--if the first sensation that floated to the surface of Dean's dreams, the phantom pain that settled on him after the first drink and before the fourth, was the weight of Castiel in his arms, Cas's arm slung across his shoulder, Cas leaning heavy and unsteady against him.

And I wonder if maybe, in Purgatory, when Dean hugged him by that river and Castiel didn't lift his arms, didn't hug back, knew already in his mind what he was going to do--what he _had_ to do--I wonder, though, if maybe Cas didn't allow himself to lean into it ever so slightly. To feel Dean holding him up again, in some small way, just for a moment. Just one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't noticed  
> till a death took me outside  
> and left me there  
> that grass lifts so quietly  
> to catch everything  
> we drop and we drop  
> everything. 
> 
> \--Leonard Nathan


	10. in which sam is less than 1,046 feet tall (sam & cas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [cecilia](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/) wanted happy sam and cas things with hugs. this is that!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated G. content notes: none whatsoever except adorable BFFs who are precious in my sight. (that said, if you want it to be sam/cas then you should follow your beautiful heart, i will not stand in your way.)

The thing is, there's a way people look at you when you're a six foot four guy built like someone who digs up graves by hand for a not-living, with hypervigilant reflexes and a habit of sizing up the exits in every room you enter. It's not a way Sam likes being looked at. He works pretty hard not to be; he knows how to make himself feel smaller, how to round his shoulders and lose a couple inches and smile and hide in loose clothes and shaggy hair and soft edges. He gets good at it.

Sometimes he thinks his favorite thing about fighting isn't the satisfaction of taking down something evil, or the pleasure of sinking into the flow of hand-to-hand and letting his reflexes and training and experience take over, or even the adrenaline rush. It's using his body--his whole body, every inch, without holding back. He feels most at home in his body when he's trying to stab things to death. He knows this is kind of messed up.

The way people look at him--most people don't make a big deal out of it. Most people, he's pretty sure, don't even realize they're reacting at all. Castiel is the first person he ever meets who _actually_ doesn't. Of course it makes sense--Cas's vessel's eyes have to look up at him, but he real eyes--or whatever it is he has--are hundreds of feet above Sam. Cas probably sees all humans as "tiny" and "extra tiny," if he even draws that much distinction.

Sam's a little preoccupied the first few times they interact, which aren't exactly feel-good happy best friend tea parties. Not that that's Cas's fault, but, well. It takes a while for them to get to a place where Sam can actually enjoy the fact that Castiel doesn't care--doesn't _notice_ \--if Sam forgets to slouch, or if he gets excited and talks too loud, or--eventually--if he hugs Cas right off his feet without even thinking. He apologizes for that, the first time it happens, and Cas gives him the curious expression that's all that remains of his weird bird-like head tilt thing after all these years, and asks him what he's sorry for.

"Oh," Sam says, and stands up straight again, starting to grin. "Well. Nothing, I guess."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,046 feet is the height of the chrysler building. if you thought i would pass up any chance for a dumb joke that's only funny to me, then my friend, you were tragically mistaken.


	11. you're the prayer inside me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: deancas, "dean's reaction to praise kink the first time". like...you can't just SAY that kind of thing to me. my god.
> 
> (chapter title is from iron & wine, "faded from the winter")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated E. content notes: praise kink obv, oral sex, maybe a light d/s vibe? maaaaaybe? mostly just a lot of Feelings though.

Castiel isn't trying, the first time. He's not thinking much at all about what he's saying. It's hard to think with Dean's mouth on him, Dean kneeling between his legs while Castiel holds himself up with trembling arms, tries not to fall back flat onto the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of it, because he wants to see this. He wants to watch every second: Dean's closed eyes fluttering and the sweat trickling down his shoulders as he pushes his mouth lower, a little at a time, sucks gently and swirls his tongue around Castiel's cock and clutches at Castiel's thigh to keep his balance.

He's working at it, absolutely and single-mindedly devoted to making Castiel feel this good, and his soft, happy noises are proof enough how much he wants to do it even if Castiel hadn't seen how hard he'd gotten just from sinking down and licking his lips a few times, hadn't seen the shudder that ran all through him when he first nuzzled his soft, barely-open lips against the head and breathed in deep, hadn't noticed the way his cock had stirred and swelled and strained against his stomach. Dean is so happy to do this, he's so _good,_ and Castiel barely has the presence of mind to notice he's saying anything at all, much less to say anything in particular on purpose. But when he murmurs that out loud, sliding one trembling hand lightly into Dean's hair-- _feels so good, oh, oh you're so good--_

From the way Dean stiffens all over, at first Castiel thinks he's done something wrong. He yanks his hand back with just a sliver of fear, tries to remember what he said, if there's something he's forgotten, another broken shard between them like all the others that kept them apart for so long and still trip them up, sometimes, now that they've finally started to be--this. Together. To do this, and he says, carefully, "Dean?"

Dean shivers again, less intensely, and looks up at him, flashes a shaky grin. "It's fine," he says. "You didn't...I'm not...it's fine."

He's shifting awkwardly on his knees, and he keeps glancing back down like it's hard for him to meet Castiel's eyes, but his voice is--a little hoarse, but steady, mostly. And honest. Castiel can tell by now; they can both tell. They know each other.

He knows Dean. And--well. This isn't a _surprise._

"Okay," he says, and runs his fingers through Dean's hair again, resting his palm around the curve of his skull. Dean pushes back into the touch, just a little, and lets out a small relieved sigh. His eyes flutter closed again as he leans forward, opening his mouth to let Castiel inside, wet heat and sweetness wrapping around him. Dean pushes himself further, further, cheeks hollowing a little, and a wave of sheer affection washes over Castiel, almost violent in its intensity; he can't _not_ speak.

"So good," he says again, and doesn't stop when Dean whimpers around his cock. "You're so good for me--trying so hard, you are, aren't you--" He slides his palm down to curve around the back of Dean's neck, not pushing, just holding him, and the choked desperate moan he gets in return is almost too much; he has to bite his lip hard before continuing. But he does, because Dean likes this. Dean _loves_ this, and Castiel knows with absolute certainty that Dean would never, ever have asked him for it.

"I love the way you look like this," he says, hearing the tremble in his own voice, "when you close your eyes and-- _work,_ just for me, you're not even touching yourself--"

Dean's grip on his thigh tightens and he starts to rock back and forth on his knees, just a little, just his hips moving restlessly as a red stain spills down his face, throat, chest. Castiel doesn't have long now, but he never wants to stop, not just the feeling of Dean's mouth slick and hot and welcoming around his cock but the feeling of doing _this_ to Dean. What he can do to Dean with just words, just the truth, just what he couldn't stop himself from saying anyway, even if he tried. 

"So good," he pants, reduced to repetition now, but still Dean is shaking and Castiel manages to say it again, again, "so good," he says, "love you, oh--" Then he's coming, and words aren't an option anymore.

The sensation of Dean swallowing around him tugs another shapeless groan from Castiel's mouth, and though it can't be more than a few seconds, the rest of his orgasm seems to last for a long time. He keeps his eyes fixed on Dean, who swallows and pulls back a little and struggles to catch all of what Castiel gives him, to take everything perfectly, licking at his lips when he finally slides his mouth off with a sloppy wet noise.

Almost instantly he's pressing his forehead against Castiel's stomach, shaking hard. Not moaning, now; Castiel can hear the choked-off sounds trapped in his throat that he won't let out. It makes his own throat ache in sympathy, tight and painful all of a sudden, and even though he can barely move yet, it's simply _necessary_ to lean forward and wrap both arms around Dean and tug him up awkwardly until Castiel can hold him, lie back and let Dean pant against his throat and thrust against Castiel's hip once--twice, a third time is all it takes before he's coming with a wet half-sobbing gasp, the sudden heat spilling between them.

For a minute after that Dean doesn't move much, except to shift a little and slot them together more comfortably. Castiel lets them lie in silence, holds on tight. Listens to Dean's breath slow along with his heartbeat.

When both are almost back to normal Dean tenses for a second, then surges up and kisses him hard--or, not hard, precisely, but--fierce. Wild. "Cas," he says, barely above a whisper, his face flushed and damp, "fuck, Cas..."

"You're perfect," Castiel tells him, and lets Dean kiss the words off his lips. He has plenty more where they came from.


End file.
